Since the beginnings of my puberty, many a moon ago, I discovered to my horror of horrors that I was hairy.
It all started with strange black lines on my stomach, stretching over my bikini which I could not fathom. So, I ignored those lines only to discover that they would not go away, but seemed to be breeding all over my body.
One day, I had had enough and borrowed a razor from the bathroom and stretched all over to shave those things away. Ever since, I am quite capable of getting into any yoga position without a struggle. Well, that's a sort of perverse positive thinking for you.
No amount of speeches and lectures could deter me from feeling seriously ugly and developing a pre-neaderthal complex: I could identify with Tarzan, but not with Johnny Weissmueller nor Jane, but with Tarzan's friend Chita! Alas, I never recalled an episode of Tarzan getting too friendly with Chita!
I couldn't bear people kissing on screen, or men gently carressing their lover's chin. By this time, you see, I had also grown a beard!
I will never forget my first initiation into depilation in Tehran. I was ushered into a tiny room, separated by a dodgy, dust-ridden curtain, by a girl who just left me on a chair naval-watching for ages. Strange sounds like that of ripping Piff-Paff bottles apart, kept ringing in my ears, until I knew better. Two women came in. Both in complete silence, but all scary smiles.
Each one took one of my legs into her hands and to this day I have no idea how they did it, but they attacked my oscillating legs with mushy, sticky stuff and kept pulling the glutinous concoction off my legs again. Before I even had time to utter a cry of severe pain, they attacked my arms and face. And that was it. I was almost normal, after only 15 minutes without a straight jacket.
Problem. Had to wait a month each time for the hairs to grow back again , before I was even allowed to contemplate the unpleasantness of the last experience of two women fiddling around with my body. And then there were the “matalak”:
“To rish daari? Paahaato negaa, cheraa khodeto tamiz nemikoni?”
“Vaa! Haalaa ke moomak endaakhti, moohaato boro salmooni boros kon. In chiye rooye saret?! To aabroohaato bar nemidaari?”
I was thirteen for goodness's sake! And as a consequence tried to sleep with curlers! Luckily, after that I was shipped off and encarcerated in an all-girls English boarding school, where I could only understand people's looks, not the language, and where it was too cold to gallop on a horse in a bikini without a saddle along the beach.
But then when I was allowed loose into the big wild world, it all started again: I discovered men and I don't think; they appreciated the subtlety of my beauty, just waiting to come out from underneath my chimpazee out fit. I liked them, though!
Doctor after doctor, ranging from the French man who prescribed cortesan which made me balloon into a 74-kilo, hairy monster; clevercloggs Harley Street man who charged 40 pounds for his wisdom: “It's a race thing. Get on with your studies.”
There was also the electrolosis torture maniac with cartoon-like dollar signs ticking away in her eyes and with a fat needle to boot; (I won't even delve into the realms of scars from “band endaakhtan” which frustrated, opportunistic relatives were relishing as revenge ); and the pill in various forms. This way I was able to have sex without getting pregnant.
Years of psycho-self-headbutting followed. I even managed to convince someone to marry me, but spent most of my time worrying about my 5 o'clock shadow appearing before my husband's and spending quality moments with razors and wax.
And do you remember the vibrating-without-joy Epilady? For a while this gadget was saving me time and money. Previously, I was forced to travel with a pan full of wax and sometimes even an electric stove which hotel manager's didn't quite appreciate. But that Epilady thing kept breaking down in between my Braun all purpose-brushing hairdryer.
So involved with hair, I went to see the musical by the same name several times! I mean, they'd sent people to the moon and back, but no-one could do anything about these tiny, annoying black things growing on my body! (Don't worry, I also tried “boor kardan” to set the prickly things into politically-correct confusion).
Until, one day, there came the lazer. Yes, there is light at the end of this tunnel. I worked out the financial implications of yet another 50 years of waxing etc, and decided to forget about my mortgage and get it all removed, PERMANENTLY! Phew.
I am so attractive now, that like a cashmere jumper I have problems keeping the moths off me and if I continue talking like this, I might actually believe what I am saying! Vali momkene dahanam moo dar biaare!
